Incommunicado
by bulmablue-eyes
Summary: After being seriously injured at the pool, Sherlock suddenly finds himself unable to communicate with the world.


**Incommunicado**

**Chapter 1**

John lowered himself slowly into the hard plastic chair, sighing sadly as his eyes fell on the man lying motionless in the bed in front of him. He raised his had and gently, oh so carefully, ran his fingers through the other man's hair.

_As soon as Sherlock's finger squeezed the trigger, John acted. He threw himself towards Sherlock, launching them both into the empty pool as the sound of guns firing filled the air. For nearly thirty seconds, John held both of them under the water, grateful that Sherlock was, for once, being uncharacteristically compliant._

_Once the firing had finished, John kicked his legs, raising both himself and Sherlock above the surface of the water. No further shots followed their appearance from beneath the surface, and John allowed himself a sigh of relief. They were ok, they hadn't been shot._

_That's when he noticed. A cloud of red was spreading through the water around the pair, surrounding them with waving smears of sickly pink._

_"Sherlock?" John cried, turning in the water to face the other man, keeping him cradled tightly against his chest. "Sherlock, are you hit?"_

_There was no response. John turned Sherlock quickly in his arms, staring into his unconscious face. He froze, horrified, feeling nausea roll through him when he saw the blood, streaming down the detective's face from a wound across the side of his head._

_John frantically dragged Sherlock out of the water, lying his unconscious form face up on the cold tiles. He pressed his fingers to the pulse point in Sherlock's neck, breathing a sigh of relief when he felt the blood pumping through his arteries, and saw his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Swallowing nervously, John focused his attention to the wound on Sherlock's head, grimacing as he saw the white glint of the other man's shattered skull. The bullet had passed through the edge of the detective's head, blasting through skin, bone and brain as it passed. John blinked back the violent threat of tears, and focused on trying to keep his friend alive until help arrived._

John blinked, casting the memories aside as he stared down at the porcelain hand cradled within his own. He could have sworn he felt - no, he was imagining it. He had probably twitched his own fingers while he was lost in the horrific memories of that night three weeks earlier.

"Come on, Sherlock." John whispered, clutching Sherlock's hand tighter within his own. "Please wake up."

Another twitch. John stared, his mouth hanging open, at Sherlock's hand. After three weeks in a coma, could it be...

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock groaned, turning his head slightly towards the sound.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"John?" Sherlock tried to lick his lips, his eyelashes fluttering as he tried to open his eyes.

"Hold on, Sherlock." John said, leaping to his feet. A look of confusion passed over the detective's face. "I'll go find someone."

John darted out of the room towards the nurses' station.

"He's awake!" He cried. "Sherlock - he's woken up!"

"John?" John turned around to see Mycroft walking towards him, looking concerned. All around him, nurses and doctors were rushing towards Sherlock's room. "What's happened?"

"It's Sherlock." John said. "He's woken up."

Mycroft hurried into Sherlock's room, John right behind him, and immediately went to his brother's side.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft said, stroking a hand across his brother's face. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock licked his lips, raising his eyes to look at Mycroft. "Sister." He said hoarsely. "Sister, trunks."

John and Mycroft looked at eachother in confusion.

"I'm sorry?" John said, stepping closer to the bed. "What?"

"Trunks, John." Sherlock said, looking irritated. "I want trunks!"

John stared, horrified, his eyes flicking from Sherlock's face to the bandage around his head and back again, a horrible thought occurring.

"Sorry, Sherlock." He said. "Think carefully. What do you mean by trunks?"

Sherlock stared, apparently baffled. "Trunks!" He snapped. "No. Fish. No!" His brow furrowed in confusion. "Splash!"

"Water?" John said. "Are you thirsty?"

Sherlock nodded, looking relieved, and John stepped forward to fill a glass with water before holding the straw to Sherlock's lips, letting him drink.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked.

"Paraphasia." John replied, placing the glass back on the table. He took Sherlock's charts and started flicking through, before grimacing slightly at what he was reading. "The bullet damaged the area of the brain responsible for language. Sherlock is replacing words he means to say with other words. Going by what we've heard so far, I'd say semantic paraphasia. He's replacing the intended word with words vaguely related to what he means to say."

Mycroft and Sherlock merely stared at him, apparently processing what he had said, before Sherlock spoke.

"Will it glue?"

"Will it get better?" John asked, watching the other doctor and the nurse as they examined Sherlock's pupils and checked his vital signs. Sherlock nodded. "It might. As the brain heals you could make a full or at least a partial recovery. But…" He hesitated, gulping down a sudden rush of tears that were burning behind his eyes. "There is a chance you could be permanently brain damaged."

Sherlock turned to Mycroft, his eyes wide and filled with panic.

"Sister." He whispered shakily, searching Mycroft's face as though it held all the answers to the universe. "My grey."

Mycroft looked down at him, confused. "Grey?" He asked, his face ashen.

"Grey!" Sherlock snarled, pointing furiously at his head. "Why are you existing Anderson?"

"Grey." John said, thoughtfully. "You mean your brain?"

Sherlock nodded.

"We won't know for sure until they make further tests," John said, "But from what I've seen so far, your personality and intellect seem to be intact. The only difference I can see so far is the damage to your ability to communicate."

Sherlock sighed, appearing relieved.

"What did you mean by 'existing Anderson'?" Mycroft asked, looking less panicked now and more perplexed.

John smiled down at Sherlock, shaking his head at the connections his brain was making. "I think he meant 'why are you being stupid?'"


End file.
